


Everlark Advent 2016

by Xerxia



Series: Everlark Advent [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drabbles, F/M, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8728057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: An advent calendar countdown of holiday and winter themed Everlark stories. A collection of Everlark drabbles and ficlets, cross-posted from Tumblr. (Note: not all days will be posted in this collection, longer works will be posted separately). Rated E for future content.





	1. Day 1: Yuletide Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is canon-compliant post mockingjay fluff. Rated G

**Yuletide Gifts**

 

“Daddy’s gonna like my present best!” Rye’s voice rings through the house, bright and clear but simmering with the kind of righteous indignation only a five year old can master.

 

“Nuh-uh, Daddy’s going to like mine best, he loves my art, he always says I’m even better than he is!” Katniss snickers from the kitchen, where she’s getting the evening meal started. She’s going to have to have a talk with her husband about maybe praising their daughter’s effort, instead of her talent. She doesn’t want Willow’s head to get too big just yet. 

 

But it’s hard to fault Peeta’s enthusiasm. After waiting so very long to become a father, he’s embraced the role with gusto. She’s always known he’d be an amazing father, but still he surprises her every day. The absolute joy he takes in parenthood, his delight in both of their children, it makes her fall more and more in love with him every day.

 

Upstairs, the cacophony increases as the sibling squabble escalates. Katniss, too, loves her kids to the moon and back. But on these dark, cold winter days when they’re cooped up in the house too much it gets challenging. “Come down here, you two,” she calls, and almost immediately a herd of little footsteps crash down the stairs. “Put on your jackets and boots, we’re going for a walk in the woods.” There isn’t much daylight left, but a half hour of running and climbing should help them get along better.

 

The sun is low, golden, setting the snow ablaze in diamond bright sparkles that the kids disrupt as they crash through the meadow, heading for the trees. Katniss just laughs. Sharing her woods and her love of the outdoors with her little darlings is a joy, a treat.

 

They collect pockets full of pinecones and winterberries and graceful cedar boughs. Yule is only days away; they already have a tree sitting proudly in their living room but Willow and Rye are taking her suggestion of gathering decorations for the fireplace mantel very seriously. Each woodland treasure is chosen and carefully evaluated; only the finest make the cut. Watching her children gather in the woods for the simple pleasure of it, instead of for survival, makes her heart sing.

 

By the time Peeta gets home from the bakery, shaking snow from the curls he wears slightly too long because he knows Katniss loves them that way, the scents of pine and popcorn waft through the house and it’s awash in bits of greenery, ribbons, and twine. He joins in the crafting fun as together their little family prepares for the festive season. 

 

~~~~~~

 

Katniss sits on the floor in front of the hearth where their Yule log crackles and snaps. Rye is curled up on her lap, drowsy after a morning of excitement and with a belly full of the special chocolate his grandmother sent from District Four. Willow plays nearby on the couch with her new felt puppets, humming an old mountain air she learned at school. Peeta picks up the bits of coloured paper and cookie crumbs scattered everywhere. He’s wearing Rye’s gift, a lumpy misshapen rectangle of orange wool barely long enough to wrap around his throat. The awe on his face when their five year old proudly told him about the weeks of afternoon knitting lessons Aunt Delly had given him was enough to bring Katniss to tears.

 

Willow’s gift has already been hung in a place of honour, where everyone who walks into their house will see it. A drawing she’d worked on tirelessly for weeks. Layer upon layer of colour fills every inch of the paper, now carefully framed in bent branches of her namesake tree. Peeta’s eyes had gotten misty when he unwrapped it. That their little girl shares his passion for art pleases him to no end.

 

Katniss gazes at the candles that line their greenery-bedecked mantel, each one representing someone who isn’t there to celebrate with them. Yuletide is a bittersweet time, but she’s content this year, surrounded by and filled with the love of her family and friends.

 

“Hey,” Peeta’s booming baritone splits the silence. “What’s this?” One last present remains under the tree, tiny and inconspicuous, wrapped in plain bakery paper. He raises an eyebrow at her when he sees his name written across it. “I thought we said no gifts between you and me?” he murmurs much more quietly. Katniss merely grins mischievously.

 

He shakes his head at his wife, settling beside her to carefully unwrap the little package. Inside is a small white Capitol device, one Peeta’s seen only twice before. His head snaps up to lock eyes with Katniss, a kind of cautious excitement spreading across his face. “Is this? Are we…?”

 

She smiles, lowering her hand to rest against her still-flat belly, where the gift they’ve created together is growing.

 

Peeta’s laughter fills the room. Willow comes tearing over, unable to resist her Daddy’s happiness. Their nearly-sleeping son startles and then smiles as Peeta gathers them all in his arms, mumbling words of gratitude between kisses. 


	2. Day 2: O Tannenbaum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the Christmas tree farm doesn't go exactly as Peeta expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day two, this chapter is modern AU and rated G

**O Tannenbaum**

 

  
  


It seemed like a great idea, a walk through Katniss’s uncle’s hobby farm to pick out and chop down our very first Christmas tree together. An afternoon together in the snow. A chance to escape from the hustle and bustle of the city and spend a couple of hours enjoying each other’s company.

 

But the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Or possibly with pine needles.

 

I’ve pretty much given up on pointing out potential trees. Of the twenty or so that looked fine to me, none have met with her approval. She has some very specific and somewhat difficult to understand standards. And so we continue to march through the woods,.

 

The day started wonderfully; we wandered hand in mittened hand, sipping from a thermos of hot chocolate. I told her all about the trees we had when I was growing up. My mother hated the smell and mess of real trees, so every year it was a tinsel tree, and each more gaudy than the last. When I told Katniss about the hot pink version with all black decorations she had to sit on a fallen log to laugh.

 

I love her laugh. I want to spend my life making her laugh.

 

But the first tree I pointed out left her horror-struck. “No, Peeta,” she’d said, as if I was a small child who’d just asked for a thousand dollar toy. “That kind of cedar is prime nesting for waxwings!” 

 

What I know about trees, or birds, would fit on a post-it note. Katniss is definitely the more knowledgeable about environmental issues. I just see trees. Suitably chastised, if somewhat confused, I of course agreed, and we kept going.

 

The next tree I loved was tall and slender, and definitely not a red cedar. But when I pointed it out she frowned. “Don’t you see how many more cones there are on these than the others? If we cut it down, what will the crossbills eat all winter?” I don’t even know what a crossbill is.

 

And so it continued.

 

Now, more than three hours into our adventure, I’m cold and getting cranky, the hot cocoa and my good cheer long gone. But Katniss is still all business, marching from tree to tree with determination, black braid swinging from under her bright red hat.

 

We should have just gotten a tinsel tree.

 

I call out to her, to suggest that we head back, maybe choose one of the pre-cut trees at the grocery store. But she’s stopped in front of a medium height tree, looking at it thoughtfully. “I think this is it, Peeta.”

 

“What makes this one any different than all of the others?” I ask, and the petulance is clear in my voice. She turns to face me, and to my surprise she’s grinning. Beaming, even.

 

“Look at it, Peeta. Really look.” I don’t see anything other than green branches. I shrug. “This one is beautiful, Peeta. Exactly what you said you were looking for. Full and lush, not quite six feet tall.” She ticks my laundry list of specifications off on mittened fingers. “It should fit exactly in the corner by the bay window. Where you said you wanted it to go.”

 

At her words I turn back to the tree. She’s right; it might be the prettiest we’ve seen yet. I’d kind of stopped noticing aesthetics, fixated instead on pinecones and berries and whether the branches form the right kind of support for nests. But looking at it with an artist’s eye, it’s just right. Symmetrical, balanced, well-shaped. Gorgeous.

 

Not unlike the pink-cheeked woman watching me with affection. “What do you think?” she asks, and there’s a hint of vulnerability in her voice. She wants me to like the tree she’s chosen. As if my approval matters to her.

 

“Perfect,” I say, though I’m no longer looking at the tree. The joy and relief that spreads across her face is a rebuke. 

 

“Good,” she breathes like a sigh, her silver eyes glittering. “I was getting worried we wouldn’t find the right one. I, well. I want it to be special, for you. Your first real Christmas tree. And our first Christmas together.”

 

That she wants this to be perfect  _ for me  _ makes my heart soar. Katniss is a woman of action, not words, but I hear her message loud and clear. I pull her into my arms, cover her cold cheeks with kisses. My gorgeous girlfriend, the light of my life.

 

She hands me the hacksaw, shyly. “Do you want to do the honours?”

 

And just like that, the fun afternoon I’d envisioned materializes. She laughs at my ineptitude as I clumsily cut down the tree, she sings Christmas carols in her bewitching voice as we walk back to our car. Holds my hand as we drive home.

 

Home, for Christmas. Together.


	3. Day 3: The First Noël

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny one. Modern AU. Rated G.

##  **The First Noel**

 

* * *

The packages trickle in, ones and twos to start, but rapidly it escalates into a torrent. Bright wrappers from chichi little boutiques in the city. Etsy shops. Places in Norway that no one has ever heard of before. A tsunami of tyvek envelopes and itty bitty boxes.

Soon Peeta’s studio is covered in costume pieces. Knit hats with ridiculously long tassels. Curly-toed elf slippers. Santa hats, Christmas tree hats, even Grinch hats, for heaven’s sake. Angel wings made of real feathers. Faux reindeer antlers hand carved by Scandinavian craftsmen. Katniss almost said something when she saw the red and green tutu, festooned with ribbons. But she resisted, simply closing the door and shaking her head.

She’s certain she’ll have plenty to say in January when the credit card bills come in. But it’s hard to complain now, watching him garb their infant daughter in an impossibly tiny snowman onesie and pretend carrot nose. Because he’s waited five, ten, fifteen years for the privilege of sending out a Christmas card proudly displaying their perfect little baby.

She’s certainly not going to spoil his fun now.


	4. Day 6: On Thin Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For day 6, Canon compliant fluff, rated T

##  **On Thin Ice**

**rated T**

* * *

I’m just about to break for lunch when the back door of the bakery bangs open, and a red stocking-capped elf steps in, a huge grin lifting her winter-kissed cheeks.

I can’t help but smile back. Any time Katniss is in a good mood it’s a good day. “Hello, Love,” I say as she walks into my arms, snowflakes scattering from her jacket and hat onto the floor. “Have you come for lunch?”

“Mmmm,” she says, pressing her icicle nose against my throat, making me shiver. “For lunch, and to tag along with you when the train comes in.” It’s Wednesday, Capitol delivery day.  I get a shipment every week, for the bakery. Though I try to buy local ingredients as much as possible there are some things I just can’t get here. Cinnamon, vanilla, coffee - those things don’t grow in District Twelve.

“Are you hoping I ordered some chocolate for you?” I tease. I did, of course.

She grins. “Yes,” she affirms. “But I have an order coming in today too.” That surprises me, Katniss seldom orders anything from the Capitol, especially now that so much of District Twelve has been rebuilt and repopulated. Between the merchants in town, the farms that cling to the mountainside, and her own hunting and gardening, there’s very little we can’t get right here. Plus Katniss still, even all these years later, doesn’t really trust the Capitol.

“What did you order?” I ask, but she merely laughs.

“You’ll have to wait and see…”

~~~

“Ice skates?” We’re sitting in front of the fireplace, thawing out after walking home through the snow that continues piling up. Katniss spent the afternoon with me at the bakery, but steadfastly refused to show me what was in her package until now.

“Yes,” she says, and her excitement is adorable. “My father used to talk about them, when I was young. I’ve always wanted to try them.”

“But you have four skates,” I say, turning one of the blades over in my hands. It’s a simple design, with leather straps designed to fasten the blade to your boot. But how it’d be possible to balance on such a narrow strip of steel, on ice no less, is beyond me. “And only two feet.”

“One pair for me, one pair for you,” she says, like I’m an idiot.

“Not a chance,” I tell her.

“We’ll see…”

~~~

“This is ridiculous,” I grumble for about the fifteenth time. It’s Sunday, but instead of enjoying my one day off warm in bed with my Katniss, I’m huddled on the bank of the narrow creek that meanders through the woods near our home.

“It’s going to be so much fun, Peeta. You’ll see.” She crouches in front of me, those damned blades dangling from her shoulder. I’ve been putting her off for a week and a half, but she can be persuasive.

So very persuasive.

“You know one of my legs is fake, right?”

“And you’ve never let that stop you from doing anything before, Peeta Mellark.” My wife is the epitome of stubborn. This is not a battle I’m going to win.

With her help, I get the infernal things strapped to my boots. She tows me to my feet, then skitters away.

Katniss has had a week and a half of practice, and she has a natural grace that I’ll simply never possess. But still it’s amazing to watch her glide. Like she’s flying.

I, on the other hand, take two tentative steps onto the ice, then fall flat on my ass. She giggles.

She won’t let me pout though, helping me back up, and holding my hands. “Come on,” she cajoles. “You can do this.”

I make a couple of stiff-legged, graceless slides. “Lean forward a little,” she says.

“If I lean forward I’ll fall,” l mumble.

“You won’t. Shift your weight to the balls of your feet.”

“Foot,” I remind her, and she rolls her eyes.

“A little further.” I try, but I’m so afraid of knocking her down, of landing on her. But she smiles. “Kiss me,” she says out of the blue.

I raise an eyebrow at her but she smirks, silver eyes sparkling. And I can’t resist.

It’s tentative at first, but I quickly relax into it. I’ll never get bored of kissing Katniss. Every time our lips touch I have to pinch myself, to remind myself it’s real, that we are real, and forever. “That’s right,” she murmurs against my lips. Only then do I realize that we are gliding, just slightly. So of course I stiffen, but she holds me firm. “You’re doing so well, Peeta,” she coos.

She keeps us moving, slowly, luring me with kisses, whispering praise. Every time I tense, she distracts me, cold fingers run through my hair, tugging and teasing. Before I know it, we’ve wiggled our way about two hundred feet down the creek.

She’s joyous. “Isn’t it fun?” And I laugh. Because no, it’s not fun, the toes on my one real foot feel frozen, the muscles in my lower back ache from the strain of holding myself upright. But her happiness in infectious. So I nod.

“I’m having a wonderful time, Love.”

She laughs. “Liar. But thank you for coming with me anyway.” She shifts to link her arm with mine and we slide along silently, back and forth, back and forth. By the time she’s ready to stop I feel like I’m getting the hang of it.

We share a flask of tea between us before walking hand in frostbitten hand back home.

And she persuades me to try again next Sunday.

She can be VERY persuasive.


	5. Day 7: The Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Peeta struggles with what to get Katniss for Yule, she gives him a little inspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon, post MJ. Head's up, this story is rated E.

The house is quiet when she returns from hunting, snowflakes sparkling in her ebony hair. But she knows where she’ll find him.

 

He’s sitting in front of his easel in what’s supposed to be the dining room of their house, but which he’s always used as an art studio because of the large south-facing windows. Even in winter, the light in this room is beautiful. But he’s not painting. He’s merely staring at a blank canvass, a slight frown on his handsome face.

She sneaks up behind him on soundless feet, unable to resist startling him, even though she’s done it a hundred times in the years they’ve lived together. When her arms slide around his shoulders, and her winter-kissed nose presses against the nape of his neck he jumps. But after a moment she can feel his low rumbly chuckle, and his arms capture her own in a firm embrace. “You’re home early,” he says, amusement still colouring his voice.

“Nope,” she pops, dragging her cold nose against the sensitive spot behind his ear that never fails to make him shiver. “You were just distracted.”

He sighs and nods, then guides her around him to perch on his lap. She never feels safer than when he’s cradling her against his body, broad and strong and so warm. Safe and loved. “I wanted to paint you something, for Yule,” he confesses in a whisper. “But nothing feels right.”

She smiles against his throat; he always tries so hard to find the perfect gifts, but all she really wants is him. “You know I don’t need anything, Peeta,” she murmurs. “Everything I want is right here.” Her fingers draw little patterns against his flannel-clad chest, circles his heart. The most important gift he’s ever given her.

He grasps her fingers, drawing them to his lips. “And you know it makes me happy to give you little surprises,” he says. And she does. She long ago learned that accepting his gifts and gestures with a smile instead of with entries in some imaginary balance sheet makes him immensely happy. That the pleasure he derives from pleasing her is, in some ways, greater than her own. She knows he’s a rare one. She’s known that since they were eleven year olds, in another world.

“Well,” she says softly, tentatively. “There is one thing.”

“Yeah?” His eyes meet her own; he looks so excited it almost steals the words from her tongue.

“I mean, it’s not a big deal if you’d rather not, but…” she trails off, and he waits with impatience painting his features, a little boy anxious for story time. “I’d like a self portrait,” she says softly, and at his confused expression she rushes to clarify. “A picture of you, Peeta. You’ve painted everyone else we know, but there are none of you. I- I’d like to have a painting. Of you.”

* * *

 

Days later, she finds him again in his studio. His hair stands on end and he’s surrounded by crumpled up balls of paper. He glances up at her before she can sneak up on him, his expression a cross between frustration and irritation that’s so out of place on his handsome face. Though he still has nightmares, still has moments where he has to clutch the back of a chair to ride out a frightening flashback, he’s usually so cheerful. “What is it?” she asks, though the papers surrounding him have given her some idea.

He huffs, waving his hands at the sketchbook propped on his easel. The faint pencil outline is obviously Peeta, but there’s something not quite right about it. His talent is evident, but the image lacks life.

She reaches for one of the paper balls, carefully smoothing the creases and it’s the same thing. Another angle but the same shortcomings. At a glance she sees five other paper balls, but his frustration suggests there are days worth of castoffs. “I’m sorry,” he breathes and his dejected tone hurts her heart. “I just… none of them look right.” She stands before him, guiding his downy head to rest against her chest, stroking his curls soothingly. But as she does she drags her fingers along the pencil lines.

“It’s your expression,” she says to herself. But he hears, lifts his head to look at her. “You look… stiff, I guess? Your smile, it's… not real. I think.” He pouts, and she can’t help but snicker. “Come on.” She tucks his sketchbook under her arm and tows him out of the studio and up the stairs.

He smirks as she pulls him into their bedroom, but when he moves towards the bed she shakes her head. “Sit here,” she says, guiding him instead to a chair and opening the closet. There’s a full length mirror on the back of the door.

“What are you up to, Love?” he laughs.

“Look at yourself,” she says softly, and he does. His expression changes, the amusement fades away and the faintest trace of a scowl paints his features. “Smile, Peeta,” she says with exasperation.

He does, but it’s forced. Still handsome, but not her Peeta. She drapes herself over his shoulders, and as his eyes meet hers in the mirror his expression softens. “There,” she murmurs. “Like that.” But when she presses his sketch pad into his hands his gentle smile falls, his expression again becomes stilted. She makes a little clucking noise.

Katniss moves in front of him, an exaggerated sway to her hips, then leans forward to kiss him. The way his face lights with excitement, that’s the expression she wants to see. The one she adores.

They kiss a few minutes, gentle pecks growing in intensity. He pulls her to straddle his lap, sketchbook forgotten between them. “You can’t see the mirror this way,” she gasps against his lips as she rocks against his rapidly stiffening erection.

“Don’t care,” he grunts before his tongue steals her protests.

“Mmmm,” she moans. “But I want you to see yourself.” Her words are punctuated by gasps as he sucks on the pulse point of her throat. She bucks against him, twining her fingers through his hair, tugging the silky strands.

But when she pulls back, slides off his lap, he groans. “Look at yourself,” she pleads, voice husky. And when he shifts his gaze to the mirror she drops to her knees.

“Wha-?”

She glances up at him through her lashes, even as she works on his belt. “Look in the mirror, Peeta.”

She’s amused, watching his eyes move frantically back and forth between her and the closet door. But when her cool hand wraps around him his head drops back. “Peeta,” she whispers, leaning in, her breath skating across his exposed flesh. He’s nearly hyperventilating in anticipation. “Watch yourself in the mirror.” Then she drags her tongue along his shaft, base to tip.

She knows what he likes, knows how to bring him to the brink, to make him beg. She moves slowly, teasing him with just the tip of her tongue, tickling the sensitive spots under his crown. Laving him over and over with the buttery soft flat of her tongue. When his hands tangle in her hair, when his hips thrust helplessly upwards, searching for her mouth, she pulls back just enough to lock eyes with him. “Watch yourself,” she repeats. “Or I’ll stop.”

His eyes widen almost comically at her threat. She snickers at the reluctant way he drags his gaze away from where her lips hover just over his dick, so tantalizingly close.

When she fully engulfs him in the wet heat of her mouth he moans in relief. She bobs enthusiastically, loving the way he trembles and pants. Each time she glances up his eyes are locked on the mirror.

His fingers tangle absently in her hair, more caress than control. Her name falls from his lips in a stream, interspersed with low moans and grunts. She loves to do this for him, loves to make him fall apart. He’s so giving, generous almost to a fault, that the few times he lets her concentrate solely on his pleasure feel like a gift. One she cherishes.

“Katniss,” he breathes, a warning. She loves that even after all of this time he warns her, wants to give her the choice. He’s a gentleman, even with his dick in her greedy mouth. She hums her acceptance and his hands tighten in her hair, one last, desperate attempt to hold on. But she hollows her cheeks, sucking vigorously, and he comes with a shout, shuddering and gasping.

She rides out the waves of his waning orgasm, kissing and caressing as he whimpers curses of praise. He tugs on her arm, and she climbs into his lap, perching in his good leg and snuggling into his shoulder. “You’re incredible,” he rasps, and she smiles.

“Look,” she whispers, gesturing towards the mirror. Their eyes meet in the reflection, his brilliant blue, glowing with adoration. “You’re gorgeous.” She’s always though so; even when they were only children she thought he was beautiful, all golden curls, bashful glances and easy smiles. And time has only made him more attractive. “That’s the expression I love. The one I want to look at for the rest of my life.”

“Always,” Peeta sighs. He kisses her, a promise. Then he reaches for his sketch pad, propping it against her thighs. She nods off to the sound of his heart under her ear and the soothing scritch-scratch of his pencil traversing the paper. 

* * *

[Find all of the Everlark Advent stories here.](http://xerxia31.tumblr.com/post/153904332885/everlark-advent-2016)


	6. Day 8: Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Mellark household, new parenthood isn't exactly what they were expecting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is rated M

##  **Silent Night**

**rated M**

 

* * *

She’s been crying for hours. That exhausted, inconsolable lament, the one that rips apart my soul and makes my breasts ache. But she’s not hungry. She’s not hungry or wet or hot or cold or overstimulated.  
  
They call it colic. I call it hell.

When she was born six weeks ago, screaming in righteous indignation, I thought it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. But that was before it became the soundtrack to my life.  
  
Her first few weeks were idyllic. She ate and slept, stared at me with eyes that haven’t yet decided if they’re grey or blue. Peeta and I were in heaven.  
  
That all came to a screeching halt two weeks ago. I swear she’s been crying ever since.  
  
Colic. The doctor says it’s no one’s fault, that it simply happens, that it’ll pass.  
  
Peeta and I share the burden, each spending time holding her, rocking her, walking with her at the far end of the house, so the other can try to get a few precious moments of rest, a few moments of quiet. But because of that, we’re like ships passing in the night, trading quick hellos as we swap baby rocking duties.  
  
I miss my husband.  
  
I miss him so much it hurts.  
  
I don’t regret having Willow, not even a little. But this isn’t what I was expecting. I’ve barely seen Peeta in weeks, and though I’m seldom alone I’m so lonely I ache. The exhaustion, the hormones. On top of everything else, I’m a stranger in my own body.  
  
I fall asleep to her wailing - dulled by the walls between us - and to the cadence of my own sobs.  
  
~~~  
  
When I startle awake, the house is eerily silent. Instantly, I’m on high alert. Something is wrong. “It’s okay, Love. Go back to sleep.” I roll over to find Peeta; his climbing into bed must be what woke me. We haven’t been in bed together in over a week, not even for a few minutes.  
  
“Willow?” I ask, my voice raspy with exhaustion and tears.  
  
“Sleeping,” he says, and nods towards the cradle by the window. I can’t resist crawling out of bed to look at her.  
  
In sleep, she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen, pink-cheeked and pouty-lipped, a miniature Peeta but with my hair. She’s so calm and peaceful, bundled in her little quilt. So angelic that it brings fresh tears to my eyes.  
  
Peeta has crept over too, and he wraps his arms around me where I stand over our baby. Outside, snow begins to fall, fat flakes that flutter by the window before floating gracefully to the ground. His lips find the sensitive spot behind my ear that makes me shudder. “Come back to bed,” he murmurs.  
  
He holds me beneath our blankets as we touch each other, reacquainting ourselves with firm muscle and soft curves, ticklish spots and places that make us pant and stifle moans in the pillows. As we rediscover familiar trails made new by time and circumstance. As we breathe through each other. As we let our bodies say what our hearts have always known.  
  
And after, we fall asleep, entwined. In the silent night.

* * *

Thank you to @hutchhitched (hutchabelle) for this prompt, and for holding my hand through the _I’ll never finish them all_ meltdowns.

[Find all of the Everlark Advent stories here.](http://xerxia31.tumblr.com/post/153904332885/everlark-advent-2016)


	7. Day 11: Christmas, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU (college). This chapter is rated T

“Peeta Mellark I can’t believe you’re ruining Christmas like this!” I narrowly avoid rolling my eyes; I told Mother two weeks ago that I’d drawn the short stick and had to cover the Christmas shift, it’s not like I’ve sprung it on her at the last minute. Besides, it’s five-thirty in the evening, the only thing I’m missing is dinner, and I wouldn’t have even had to miss that if she’d just moved the meal up an hour.

But Melinda Mellark doesn’t change her plans for anything.

Or anyone.

She’s still spewing vitriol as I shut the front door, pulling my jacket closed around me. Peeta Mellark, ruiner of Christmas, again.

The streets are empty, the drive to the movie theatre where I work during school breaks peaceful. It gives me a few minutes to calm down. Breathe.

Truthfully, I volunteered for this shift. I’ve been working at the theatre since I was sixteen, I know Haymitch, the owner, would have given me the night off.

But I hate Christmas.

Oh I’m not a grinch, far from it. I decorate for the holidays, bake cookies, wear the ugly Christmas sweaters, drink eggnog, buy gifts for my family and friends. On the outside, I’m the very picture of a jolly elf.

Inside my head and heart is a different story. See, the very first in a long line of Christmases that I ruined occurred the day I was born.

Christmas day, twenty years ago.

In my house, Christmas is sacrosanct. They certainly wouldn’t let a little thing like my birthday interfere with traditions.

Every year it’s the same. Instead of a birthday gift, I’ll get a ‘bigger’ combined birthday-Christmas gift, which never seems to be any different than what my brothers have gotten. And instead of a birthday cake, my mother will grudgingly add a candle to the bûche de noël she serves for dessert.

The parking lot is nearly half-full, we’re the only theatre in District Twelve that’s open today. Business is always solid on Christmas day. Though I’m certain my mother wouldn’t understand, there are people in Panem who don’t celebrate Christmas. And people who don’t have anyone to celebrate with. Getting lost for a few hours in a movie is a great way to forget about the holiday vomit for awhile.

I park around the side, out of the way of the customers, and I can see that the lights are on in one of the party rooms. I doubt anyone is throwing their kid a birthday party on Christmas day, must be Johanna using the video game system that Haymitch installed to entertain the party animals before their movies begin. She’s pretty hooked on the ax throwing game, and she’s terrifyingly good at it.

When I walk into the lobby I can’t help but smile. The ubiquitous piped-in Christmas music has been changed out this evening for a local rock station. It’s a welcome reprieve for my over-hallelujah’ed ears.

But I’m shocked to see Thresh manning the front, chatting with Rue, whose shift is just ending. I’m the one who is supposed to replace her tonight. When they catch sight of me they grin. “Change of plan, Peet,” Thresh calls out. “You’re manning the party room tonight.”

Well shit.

“Someone is crazy enough to be hosting a holiday party today?” My tone is completely incredulous, but Thresh just nods, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“A birthday party, actually, and since you’re late you get to host it.”

I groan as I glance at my phone, “I’m not actually late, you know.”

“Later than me,” he laughs, and that seals the deal. Last one to show up gets stuck entertaining the kids, that’s always the way it’s been. “Room’s already set up, the first guests’ll be showing up any minute.”

As much as I don’t want to spend my evening dealing with a bunch of little kids hopped up on sugar and overtired from what has to have been a long day already, I respect the parents who are throwing their kid a birthday party on Christmas day. That’s got to be a first. Not a chance in hell my own would have done that.

A quick stop in the back room to ditch my jacket and punch in, and I head for Party Room #4. It’s the biggest of the four rooms, and the furthest from the screens.

I push open the door and stop dead in my tracks.

The guests are already here. But they’re not shrieking, hyperactive kids.

“Happy birthday, Breadboy!” Well okay, Johanna is shrieking and hyperactive. But the rest of the room is filled with my friends, Finnick and Annie, Delly, Thom, Gale, Madge, Dalton, Darius, Lavinia.

And Katniss.

My Katniss.

Silver-eyed Katniss, my gorgeous girlfriend. Katniss, who is supposed to be spending Christmas with her mother’s family in District Four. Katniss, who I’ve been pouting over missing so very much this Christmas break.

Katniss who is looking at me with the softest smirk.

I rush over to pull her into my arms, spinning her despite the cramped space. “Happy Birthday, Peeta,” she laughs over the din of the rest of our friends hollering. And then I kiss her hard.

“Breadboy, get your tongue out of Brainless’s throat and come have a drink,” Johanna yells, and Katniss and I break apart, both grinning rabidly. I haven’t seen Katniss since she got on the train to D4 almost a week ago, and my body is aching for hers.

She pulls me through what feels like a sea of congratulations, back slaps and hugs, to where the table is set with festive birthday decorations. No red-and-green re-purposed Christmas decor; everything here is blue and orange and has HAPPY BIRTHDAY displayed in huge font, and there are streamers and Mylar balloons everywhere. And in the middle of the table is not a bûche de noël, but an actual birthday cake. A real just-for-me birthday cake, with my name piped in frosting underneath an orange tyrannosaurus rex.

I have never in my adult life wanted to cry as badly as I do right now.

“Did you do this?” I ask Katniss as Johanna passes out cans of beer and Finnick cranks up the music. She nods shyly.

“You deserve to have your day celebrated, not just tacked onto Christmas.”

I couldn’t love her more.

It’s the best birthday party I ever could have imagined. Katniss sits on my lap, feeding me nachos while we hang out, talk and laugh. A couple more friends drop by later in the evening. Johanna kicks my ass at the ax throwing game. Annie makes me pose for pictures with the cake and blowing out the candles, while Finnick makes lewd guesses about what I’ve wished for.

Lewd, but accurate.

It’s after midnight when Haymitch arrives to kick us out, smirking and grabbing a leftover slice of cake before starting to tear down the decorations. “Nice work, Sweetheart,” he says to Katniss. She nods sharply, then she drags my half-drunk ass out of the theatre and sticks me in the passenger seat of my car.

“I don’t want this day to end,” I sigh as she settles into the driver’s seat.

“Well we have a few more hours,” she says shyly. “My mom and Prim are still in District Four, my house is empty until Tuesday. And I haven’t even given you your birthday gift yet.” She reaches across to squeeze my thigh before pulling the car out and heading for her house.

Best birthday ever.

* * *

[Find all of the Everlark Advent stories here.](http://xerxia31.tumblr.com/post/153904332885/everlark-advent-2016)


	8. Day 12: Slippery Slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Rated T.

“Peeta, where are you?” Her voice on the phone is pinched with annoyance. “You were supposed to be home a half hour ago.”

 

“Uh, yeah, about that,” I start, and then stop. There’s no easy way to say it. She’s going to be pissed. “I kind of, uh. Wrecked my car.”

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah,” I breathe. “That big curve on Concession Twelve? Well it’s icy, and I was going too fast.” She’s warned me so many times about taking that corner more slowly, especially in my little sub-compact. My luck was bound to run out sooner or later. And with the light snow falling, well. Tonight, the odds were not in my favour.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I’m okay. Just embarrassed. I’m waiting for the tow truck now, but I don’t think my car is going to be drivable. Would you mind picking me up?” I know I could ask the tow truck driver to drop me off on his way to the garage, but my heart is still pounding pretty hard, and I just want Katniss, even if she’s going to be mad.

 

“I’m on my way,” she says, and the call ends before I can even thank her.

 

* * *

 

 

The tow truck driver is gruff and grumpy, and smells enough like liquor to make me leery, but he doesn’t make fun of me, and he lets me sit in the warm cab of his truck while I wait for Katniss. It isn’t very long before her old Corolla cautiously rounds the bend and pulls off to the side of the road, across from me. I jump out of the truck to meet her.

 

I watch her piercing grey eyes evaluate me head to toe, checking for signs of injury, before she hugs me hard. “Doofus,” she says, but with no malice.

 

She tugs me towards her car, but I remember the tow truck guy. “Let me just make sure Haymitch knows where to haul my Civic,” I murmur. “I’ll be right back.”

 

I cross over to where he’s standing at the back of his truck fiddling with a lever, hooks and chains already attached to my bumper. He turns off the winch to speak. “Don’t worry about me, kid,” he says. “I know where to dump your piece of shit.” Looking over my shoulder, his eyes widen suddenly. “I think you’d be best to worry about yourself right now.”

 

Her gasp slices the otherwise quiet night. I thought she was waiting in her car. Instead, she’s staring at the crumpled mess of my car, half in and half out of the ditch. I glance over, hesitantly. Her eyes are wide as saucers, hand covering her mouth. I can’t read her expression. She turns abruptly, stalking away from me, to her car. In the background, Haymitch mumbles, “ _Brrrr._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

She’s utterly silent the entire drive back to our house, white-knuckles on the steering wheel, lips pinched tightly. And I just feel shitty, not only for trashing my car, but for disappointing her this badly.

 

She jumps out of the car as soon as she’s parked, practically stomps up the walkway. She’s in the door before I’ve even hit the porch steps.

 

When I walk in, I find her standing just inside the living room, facing away from me. The lines of her body are tense; arms crossed, shoulders high. Anger practically radiates from her small frame.

 

“I’m sorry, Katniss. I - I’m just sorry.” She whirls around to face me, but instead of the fury I’m expecting, her face is a mask of anguish.

 

“You - you think I’m mad, Peeta?” her voice catches a little on my name, tears shimmer in her silver eyes. I can do nothing but gape. “You could have been killed.” It’s a whisper, but it feels like she’s screaming inside and tightly reining it in. “I could have lost you.” A single tear overflows, curls down her cheek, cuts me like a knife. “I can’t lose you.” And then she’s in my arms, holding me so tightly I can feel her heart beating against my own, feel how her body trembles where it’s wrapped around mine.

 

I was calm when it happened. From the moment I knew I wasn’t going to make the bend it was as if I was merely an observer. The slow-motion slide, the stomach-heaving sensation of falling. The thump of hitting the frozen ground headlight first, almost delicately compared to what I'd braced for. The awkwardness of climbing out the passenger side door, as if it were an escape hatch. Scrambling up the shallow embankment on hands and knees, the dampness of the snow soaking through my jeans. Even calling Haymitch’s tow service felt like it had happened to someone else. But standing here now, Katniss sobbing against my throat, it all rushes in, all of the fear and adrenaline I suppressed in the moment.

 

It was a relatively minor accident that could have been so much worse. Maybe _should_ have been.

 

I don’t notice I’m shaking until Katniss pulls back, looking into my eyes. Then she wordlessly tugs me into our bedroom.

 

She undresses me, and herself, with a gentle efficiency, peeling back the sheets on our bed before lying down and tugging me into the cradle of her naked body. Her hands trace soothing trails over my sensitized flesh, and even as her tears continue she whispers comforting bits of nonsense. Reminding me that while I could have lost everything tonight, I didn’t. She’s here. I’m here. This is real.


	9. Day 13: Bearer of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a tiny one, rated G

Exotic.

 

That’s what Katniss Everdeen is. Or at least, that’s what Peeta heard his big brother, Brann, call her. And though he’s not sure exactly what that means, he thinks it’s probably right.

 

Dressed in a long white gown that highlights her smooth olive skin, the light flickering from her wreath of candles glinting in her long black hair, she’s unlike anyone else in their little community. She’s unique in a sea of blond heads, beautiful, more radiant than the sun. Back straight, she holds her head high as she proudly leads a procession of white-robed girls down the church aisle.

 

Katniss moved into their town just a few months earlier, with her momma and little sister. She’s in Peeta’s sixth year class at school. He’s been enthralled by her since the first time he heard her sing, at the auditions where she was chosen to play Saint Lucia at the town’s festival. 

 

Saint Lucia.  _ Bearer of light _ . Peeta thinks it’s the perfect job for Katniss, because she’s certainly brought light into his boring life.

 

Even if she doesn’t yet know he exists.


	10. Day 16: What's Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, just-married Everlark hosting Christmas at their home for the first time. Rated T.

With a huge sigh, I step through my front door and close it firmly. Last day of school behind me, I’m now officially on Christmas break. I love my students, but corralling twenty-five middle schoolers two days before Christmas would test the patience of a saint.

 

And I’m no saint.

 

I can only blame the insanity of the day - a classroom potluck featuring more sugar and garbage than I could ever have imagined - for how utterly exhausted I am. I drop my coat and bag on a chair and plummet face-first into the couch. I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes.

 

When a large hand gently shakes me awake it’s dark. “Shit!” I say, practically jumping up, and then regretting it as a wave of wooziness hits me. I knew I shouldn’t have had all of those chocolate-covered marshmallows.

 

“Woah,” Peeta says, catching my shoulders as I swoon a little. “Are you all right? Hard day?” He sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, and I sink into him, breathe him in.

 

“Yeah, I guess,” I admit. “The kids were out of their minds between the candy and the holidays. Should just give them this whole month off, I don’t think they listened to a single thing I said all week.”

 

He kisses my temple and chuckles. “My poor Love. Why don’t you lie back down and I’ll start dinner?” I love this man so damned much. He always knows exactly the right thing to say.

 

“Okay,” I breathe. 

 

I only intend on closing my eyes until that residual grogginess fades, but the next thing I know he’s lifting me off the couch, carrying me towards our bedroom. “What?” I groan, but he shushes me.

 

“Go back to sleep, Love,” he whispers.

 

“What time is it?” I swear it’s only been ten minutes.

 

“Eleven,” he says. “I tried to wake you for dinner, but you were passed right out.” I feel like I should argue, but I can’t lift my head from his shoulder.

 

When I crack my eyes open again it's bright, too bright. I lift my eyes to the clock on my nightstand. Nine-thirty. Shit! It's Christmas Eve; we’re hosting Peeta's family for Christmas dinner tomorrow, for the very first time. I'd planned on spending all day today cleaning and decorating, I'm already hours behind schedule. 

 

I bolt out of bed and immediately wish I hadn't. My head and stomach spin in tandem and I barely make it to the bathroom before emptying the contents of my stomach in rather spectacular fashion. 

 

“Katniss?” Peeta comes clomping into the bathroom just after round two. “Shit,” he says, seeing me slumped on the floor, my face pressed to the cold porcelain. I close my eyes tightly. Behind me, he shuffles, the sink runs. And then a cold cloth is placed on the back of my neck. “Damnit, I should have known you were sick when you said no to pizza.”

 

He brushes my hair back from my face, then presses his fingers to my forehead, checking my temperature. But I can smell he's been baking grandma Spencer’s rum balls. Normally they're my favourite. But the stench makes my stomach clench painfully and I shove his hand away to throw up again. It's nothing but bile. 

 

He makes soft, comforting sounds, wiping the cold, wet cloth over my face, rubbing soothing circles between my shoulder blades. Eventually I lift my head to look at him. His brows crease in concern. “You look awful.” I don't have the energy to be offended. 

 

“I think I'm done,” I whisper. My throat aches from the acid but there's no longer any imminent risk of a repeat performance. He helps me back to our bedroom. 

 

“I'll call my parents and cancel tomorrow,” he says softly, but I balk. 

 

“No! You can't, your mother will hate me even more!” Inexplicably, the thought threatens to bring me to tears. I haven't given a crap about Mrs. Mellark’s opinion since Peeta and I were teenagers. I'd rather not start now. 

 

Peeta takes a deep breath, as if to begin a long argument, but I grab his arm, cradle it against me like a teddy bear. “I'll be fine, I promise.” He looks completely unconvinced. But I look up at him through my lashes, the way I know he can't resist. 

 

He rolls his eyes. “I know what you're doing, Katniss. Fine,” he sighs. “I'll make you a deal.” He waits until I nod, then continues. “You stay in bed while I pick up the groceries.” I could almost cry, this man is so unbelievably good to me. 

 

“Okay,” I whisper, already fighting heavy eyes. Barfing is exhausting. 

 

“We’ll re-evaluate when I get back,” he says, kissing my forehead. 

 

I'm not any better rested when he gets back, but I haul myself out of bed anyway, and plaster a big smile on my face. He isn't convinced, but he doesn't fight me. 

 

He's brought chicken soup from the takeout counter at the grocery store, and though I'm not remotely hungry he coaxes me to eat some. And it helps, soothes my throat, tempers the residual nausea. 

 

The afternoon passes in a blur of preparations. Though I'm so tired I can barely see straight, I power through. Like an automaton. Just keep swimming. 

 

I'm teetering on a stepladder, hanging the last of the garland, when he wraps his arms around me, lifts me down. “That's enough, Love.” I look around; the house is perfect, all twinkle lights and evergreen boughs, the majestic Douglas fir we cut down last weekend holding court in the corner. I can smell mulled wine bubbling on the stove, and something savoury, meat pies I think. 

 

I wrap my arms around him, nuzzle his throat. He strokes my hair, breathes me in. We rock together, the stress of the day and week melt away in his embrace. He cups my cheek, kisses my lips gently. “Are you hungry?” he whispers. 

 

“Starving.” I am, but not for food. I've been so tired, so busy, between my students and my own holiday shopping and preparation, it feels like a month since we've touched each other. 

 

He smiles so wide before kissing the tip of my nose. “Sit,” he says. “I'll bring you a glass of wine, and a plate of food.” He winks in a cheesy suggestive way and I laugh, settling on the couch to wait. 

 

The next thing I know, he's pulling the sheets up under my chin. I can't even wake up enough to apologize. 

 

His lips trailing delicate kisses up my spine pulls me from slumber in the most delicious way. “Merry Christmas, Love,” he murmurs when he reaches my ear. 

 

I smile, pull his arms around me and sink back into that warm, drowsy half-sleep while he kisses my shoulders, my neck. 

 

But when he shifts a few minutes later, to climb out of bed I think, the motion triggers a wave of nausea so acute it frightens me. I barely make it to our ensuite.

 

He holds me while I heave and retch, tears streaming down my face. It feels like I'm sick forever. But once I can catch my breath Peeta stands. After a few moments I hear him pacing just outside the bathroom, talking on the phone. My heart sinks, he's going to cancel Christmas dinner with his folks. They're going to hate me even more. I've ruined Christmas. 

 

I catch snippets of his part of the conversation. “All day yesterday. No, she barely ate. I don't think so, but she's slept maybe thirty of the last thirty-six hours.” I lose track after that. 

 

When he comes back I'm nearly asleep, slumped against the bathroom wall. “Think you're done?” he asks. I nod, and he carries me back to bed. 

 

“I'm so sorry, Peeta,” I whimper. I'm not the whiny type, but I can't help it. It's Christmas, and I'm a stinking, retching mess. But he shushes me, simply holding me and making me drink a little water. 

 

I'm just starting to feel a little better when our doorbell rings. Peeta escorts our friend Johanna back to the bedroom, and I roll my eyes. “It's Christmas. Don't you have somewhere better to be?”

 

“Nope. Stitched up my last moron a half hour ago. Never fails there's at least one idiot they have to fish out of a chimney and drop in my exam room.” Jo’s doing her residency in emergency medicine. 

 

“Go away, Jo,” I groan. I'm embarrassed enough without her poking me too. I don’t need her to tell me that eating chocolate covered marshmallows - especially ones that were likely mauled by two dozen filthy, germy hands - was a bad idea.

 

“Spare me, Brainless,” she barks as she jumps on my bed and I cringe. “Breadboy says you're sick. What's the problem?”

 

“Nothing.” I'm grumpy and petulant, and Jo smells revolting, like disinfectant. But she laughs. 

 

“Come on.” She hauls me out of bed and tows me to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind us. 

 

While she searches through her bag, I look in the mirror. The face that looks back at me is hardly my own. Deep bags under my eyes speak to a couple of weeks of exhaustion and my unnaturally pale cheeks have that post-hurling hollowness. I sigh. 

 

“Here,” Jo barks, slapping a box against my arm. “Pee on that.” I glance at the slender box, and my eyes nearly pop out of my head. 

 

A pregnancy test. 

 

“Wait, what, no-” I try, but I can't string together a coherent thought. “That's not, I mean, it's not  _ not _ , but…” Johanna rolls her eyes through my sputtering. 

 

“When was your last visit with Aunt Flow?” I stop, try to remember. I can't. “Right,” she says. “Pee on the stick.”

 

“Are you gonna watch?” I whine. 

 

“Please, Brainless. Like I haven't seen it before.” We were roommates all through college, there isn't much of me she hasn't seen. But her eyes soften. “Do you want me to send in Breadboy?” When I nod, she leaves the bathroom. 

 

I pee on the stick, wash my hands, then sit on the edge of the tub to wait, too shell-shocked to even consider what I'm hoping the result will be. 

 

The door creaks open, far too gently to be Jo. Peeta moves towards me but stops dead when he sees the little wand perched on the sink's edge. “Is that? Are you?”

 

“I don't know,” I whisper, as if raising my voice will somehow disrupt the little test. “Jo thinks maybe?”

 

He sits beside me and twines our fingers together as we wait what feels like forever. When the timer goes off I'm paralyzed. “Together?” he breathes. 

 

There are two lines. 

 

“Holy shit.” Peeta’s eyes are wide and his mouth hanging open. 

 

“Are you?” I can't finish the thought. We weren't exactly planning this just yet. We've only been married a year, and we both have a ton of student debt still.

 

But his lips curve up into a huge grin. “Holy shit!” He yells. And then he's spinning me around. 

 

“No spinning,” I gasp, feeling a little green still. He stops, looking sheepish, though it doesn't diminish the pure awe in his eyes. 

 

“I was right, yes!” Johanna does a touchdown dance just outside the door that makes me laugh for the first time all week. 

 

Jo gives me a vial of antinauseants that she assures Peeta are safe for the baby, and when she says ‘baby’ he practically glows. She takes off, calling dibs on my New Year’s champagne. 

 

And then we’re alone. 

 

We both crawl back into bed, and even though I smell like a vomitorium, Peeta covers every inch of my face with kisses. 

 

“It's too late to put the turkey in the oven now,” I sigh. He snorts. 

 

“I could not care less, Love.” He’s still smiling. “I'll order Chinese, unless you think it'll make you sick?”

 

“No, that sounds wonderful. Your mom’s gonna be so pissed though. She didn't think I could manage to cook Christmas dinner.” I groan. “She was right.”

 

“Are you crazy? She's going to be so fucking over the moon when she hears what you've been cooking instead.” He cups my belly with a goofy look on his face. 

 

I smile indulgently at him. “I can't believe you said that. That was the cheesiest thing I've ever heard!”

 

“Hey,” he laughs. “Gotta practice my dad jokes. I’ve only got eight months.”

 

I grin back at him. “You're going to be a dad, Peeta.”

 

“We're having a baby. Wow. Are you happy, Love?” He looks at me with such hope in his eyes, this man I've loved since he was just a boy. 

 

“Yeah, I am.” I'm scared, and I'm still feeling rancid. But under that, I'm truly happy. 

 

“Merry Christmas, Katniss,” he breathes. 


	11. Day 17: Blue Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, rated T

I’m not completely surprised when the banging starts. Peeta’s been texting and phoning for the past hour, and I’ve been ignoring him. I figured he’d eventually show up, though I’m surprised it’s this quick. “Everdeen!” a deep baritone bellows through my apartment door. “I know you’re in there. Open the door.” I contemplate ignoring him, but I know Peeta. He’s going to keep pounding on the door until I relent.

 

I fling the door open, and the annoyed expression he’s wearing falls away as he takes in my puffy red eyes and pyjamas. But there are no platitudes on his pretty pink lips. “I’ve been texting you for an hour, Katniss,” he says, before continuing more gently. “I need your help. Get dressed.”

 

“It’s not a good time, Peeta,” I huff. He’s undeterred. 

 

“You’re the only one here. Please?”

 

“Is this some stupid ploy to get me out and into the holiday spirit? Because it’s not going to work.” It’s two in the afternoon on December the twenty-fourth, there’s no tree in my apartment, no garlands, no lights. Christmas, as far as I’m concerned, is as dead as the sister who can’t spend it with me.

 

The holidays were Prim’s thing. She loved everything about Christmas; the lights, the gifts, the music. Every year, she’d start decorating on the day after Thanksgiving, dragging me along with her. I never said no. I never said no to anything she wanted.

 

Even last year, sick and weak, waiting for a transplant that didn’t come in time, she insisted on decorating her hospital room. But when she died last January, she took with her all of the joy I once found in Yuletide.

 

“I’m not going to bully you into anything, you know that,” Peeta says. “But I’m not above laying down a guilt trip.” I groan; that’s low, and he knows it. I owe him so much, and I hate owing people.

 

“You don’t understand,” I snap, and then mentally kick myself. Peeta’s family might not be dead, but he’s just as alone this holiday season as I am. His parents took off someplace warm, Aruba I think, and his brothers are both busy with their own lives. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

 

“You’re entitled to be sad, Katniss. I wouldn’t try to take that from you.” He rubs my shoulder, and I know that despite what I said, he really does understand. “It sucks that she’s not here,” he says.

 

“It does.” I won’t cry anymore, I’ve cried too much already today. “What do you need my help for?” His smile lights up the room.

 

“I have to make a delivery by three, and it’s too much for me to handle alone. Will you help me?”

 

“Fine,” I groan. “Give me ten.”

 

It actually takes almost twenty minutes to wash my face, brush most of the rat’s nests out of my hair and put on clean sweats. When I come back out of my bedroom I find Peeta reclining on my couch, his long legs propped up on the coffee table. He’s ditched his jacket and is wearing an obnoxiously bright red sweater with Jesus and Santa Claus on the front.  _ Jingle Bros, _ it says. I roll my eyes. “Why are you wearing that for a delivery?” I ask, suspicion clear in my voice. 

 

He shrugs. “When else am I going to get to wear it?”

 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

 

His car smells chocolatey, which sets me at ease, and not just because I love chocolate. Peeta’s day job is in advertising, but he runs a little baking and cake decorating business on the side, out of his own kitchen. Not only is he an incredible artist, crafting the most beautiful, intricate, delicate cakes, but his baked goods taste incredible too. Time and again I tell him he should ditch the commercials and slogans, and open a bakery. But if his car smells this good, then we really are going on a delivery and not to some secret ugly sweater party.

 

We drive in silence, for which I’m grateful. I know normally he’d have the radio tuned to the Christmas station, but he knows without me saying that I couldn’t manage that today. I only speak when I realize that we’ve driven into the seedier part of town. Not exactly where the people who order Peeta’s elaborate bûche de noëls for their holiday tables usually live. “Where are we going?”

 

“Just up ahead,” he mumbles, distracted, before flipping on his turn signal. He pilots his little Civic behind a nondescript brick building and parks beside a loading dock. “Hang on,” he tells me, and jumps out of the car. I shudder a little at the idea of staying alone here, even in broad daylight it’s an intimidating part of town, rough and raw and dirty.

 

He doesn’t go far though, simply ringing a bell beside the large door, then coming around to open my door. Even having taken me to the slums, he’s a gentleman.

 

The garage-style loading door slides open noisily. A large man, strikingly handsome but intimidating steps out. When he sees Peeta his face lights up, changing his whole demeanor, making him look more like a huge teddy bear. “Peeta,” the man calls out, rushing over to shake Peeta’s hand and clap him roughly on the shoulder while I fidget uncomfortably.

 

“Thresh,” Peeta says, his smile wide and genuine. “Sorry I’m late, man. Took a little longer than I expected to load up.” He turns to where I’m trying to shrink into the background. “This is my friend, Katniss,” he says, and Thresh turns his megawatt smile in my direction.

 

“Nice to meet you.” He shakes my hand, then turns back to Peeta. “How many did you bring us?”

 

“Thirty-two dozen,” he says. “Will that be enough?”

 

Thresh wrinkles his brow in thought. “Be cutting it close,” he says. “But I still have some of your shortbread tucked away in the freezer, I think we’ll be okay.”

 

I’m completely bewildered as the three of us move around to the back of Peeta’s car. Box after box after box are stacked carefully in the hatch of his small car, he hands one to each of us. “Try not to let them tip sideways,” he warns.

 

It’s only as I’m following Thresh through the door that I see the sign.

 

The Panem Mission.

 

Though I’ve never been here before, I’ve heard the commercials, especially at this time of year. The Mission is a homeless shelter for men.

 

We walk into a large industrial kitchen, clean but dated, where Thresh directs us to start stacking the boxes on a metal table. 

 

It takes a half dozen trips for the three of us to carry all of the boxes in, as we’ve been doing so a young woman has been unpacking them. Hundreds of cupcakes, decorated in red, white and green frosting emerge and are carefully lined up on paper plates and placed on cafeteria type trays.

 

I’ve seen Peeta’s cupcakes before; these are different. Though the care that’s gone into them is obvious, they’re a little shorter, a little simpler than usual. He catches me staring. “I can’t pile the frosting up on them,” he tells me quietly. “It makes them too top-heavy, too hard to serve to a big group. Learned that lesson a couple of years ago.”

 

“What is all of this?” In addition to the cupcakes, every surface is covered with foil pans, huge metal bowls, bags of dinner rolls, and cartons of orange juice and milk. The air is warm and heavy with the scent of roast turkey and potatoes.

 

“Christmas dinner,” Thresh says, and pride is evident in his voice. “We put together a little holiday meal for the men.”

 

“Thresh is being modest. He’s been in here for the past two days, cooking up an incredible feast for the Mission’s clients.” Peeta grins.

 

Thresh shrugs. “The guys, they deserve it. Most of them don’t have anywhere else to go, no family, or at least no family that talks to them. Nobody should be alone for Christmas. If I can help give them one special day…” he trails off, then shakes his head. “And they all look forward to these little beauties.” He waves at the cupcakes. On trays all loaded into a metal rack, they make an impressive display. 

 

Another woman rushes into the kitchen, beaming when she sees the last of the cupcakes being plated. “You’ve outdone yourself this year, Peeta. Those look gorgeous!”

 

Peeta blushes. “Just happy to help,” he mumbles.

 

“You donated all of these?” My eyes are wide at the realization. The hours and hours of work that must have gone into baking and decorating hundreds of cupcakes is beyond my ability to comprehend.

 

“Peeta’s one of our best volunteers,” the woman beams. I just stare at him in shock. I had no idea. Though I shouldn't be surprised.

 

I’ve known Peeta for about two years now, my friend Annie is his coworker. I know how kind and thoughtful and generous he is. Always the first to offer help when someone needs a couch moved, or a lift to the airport. Always there with an encouraging word when someone is sad, or a pot of broth when someone is sick.

 

He’s also the one who, eleven months ago, helped me learn to function in a post-Prim world. That part is still ongoing, maybe.

 

“Speaking of,” the woman continues. “Any chance you could stay to help serve? We’re seriously short on help today. Rue’s got the flu and most of the college kids have already gone home.”

 

Peeta glances at me uneasily. “Sure, Seeder” he says. “But I need to take Katniss home first. I can be back in about a half hour?”

 

“Great,” she says, and breezes back out of the kitchen.

 

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I thought I might convince you let me buy you a holiday latte for your trouble, but I’m going to have to take you straight home instead.” He looks disappointed. Or maybe just exhausted.

 

“Can I stay?” I almost don’t realize I’ve said it out loud, but the way his head jerks up it’s clear I did. “I mean, can just anyone volunteer? I’d like to help.”

 

Peeta doesn’t get a chance to answer before Thresh is laughing, talking a mile a minute, explaining what’s involved in serving the meal. His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself smiling for the first time in days. And when I glance back at Peeta, he too is smiling softly.

 

Even with only a handful of volunteers, we get the buffet set up and loaded before the men start arriving. I don’t know what I was expecting, dangerous looking thugs, crazy old men maybe? But the men who file into the large dining room are just ordinary guys, and all of them seem to be in high spirits. They laugh and joke with each other, and with the volunteers. Everyone seems to know Peeta, asking about his job, teasing him about his sweater. And he knows them too. It’s clear he’s a regular here.

 

“What do we have here?” An older man stops in front of my mashed potato station, eying me speculatively. “You’re new aren’t you, Sweetheart? What’s your name?”

 

Even though I bristle a little at the label, I answer him. His eyes light up. “You’re the girl that Breadboy talks about all of the time.” I glance over at Peeta, two stations down, and he’s turning red. It feels like my eyebrows climb all the way into my hair. Peeta talks about  _ me _ ?

 

“Leave her alone, Haymitch,” Peeta calls over, “Or next week I’ll forget to bring that molasses bread you like so much.” Haymitch salutes him, mimes zipping his mouth. But when Peeta’s attention returns to serving scoops of mixed vegetables to the men standing in front of him, Haymitch again addresses me. “You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve that boy,” he says. “He’s a rare breed.”

 

“He is,” I say, ignoring the rest of Haymitch’s implication.

 

The evening races by in a haze of raucous laughter and spilled gravy. We serve and replenish and serve some more, nearly five hundred people all told. The cupcakes run out and the shortbread runs out but no one complains. And when the dining room empties, we stay to wipe down tables and sweep up crumbs, load dishwashers and scrub coffee carafes. We stay more than eight hours, until we’re swaying with exhaustion.

 

But I can’t stop smiling.

 

We finally stagger out to Peeta’s car just before eleven. He reaches across the console to grab my hand. “Katniss,” he starts. “Thank you. I can’t tell you what it means to me that you stayed.”

 

“Thank  _ you _ , Peeta. I’m glad I did.” 

 

He pulls out of the parking lot, heading for my place. But he doesn’t let go of my hand. I chew on my bottom lip, looking at our entwined fingers. 

 

“I don’t know if you planned on that happening,” I say. “But I think it was exactly what I needed.”

 

“They help me,” he says. “Far more than I help them. I never feel lonely there. They won’t let you feel lonely.”

 

“I’d like to go back some time,” I admit, and he laughs quietly.

 

“Seeder would be so thrilled to have you, Katniss. It’s hard to get volunteers at the Mission. It’s not the most glamorous place.”

 

“Maybe not. But it’s, well. It’s real.” We lapse into silence for the rest of the drive, Peeta’s thumb stroking my hand soothingly. When he pulls up at my building, I’m not ready to let him go. I don’t want to be alone in my cold apartment. And I don’t want Peeta to be alone either.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t put aside a cupcake for you. And I guess it’s too late for that latte now,” he murmurs. “Rain check?”

 

“I have a better idea,” I tell him. “I have a fresh box of Swiss Miss and a bûche de noël that this crazy, kind, incredible baker dropped off yesterday. Would you maybe like to come up and share them with me?”

 

He smiles, that heart-stopping smile that makes me feel like everything is going to be all right. “I’d love nothing better.”


	12. Day 18: Candy Cane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny little modern AU. Highschool Everlark. Rated T.

Her cheeks hollow as she sucks and bobs, eyes drifting closed in pleasure. Her nostrils flare just a little as she breathes around her mouthful, and I shudder. 

 

What I wouldn't give to march across the room and give Katniss Everdeen something thicker to suck on than that candy cane. 

 

As if she senses my thoughts, she glances over at me. It isn't the first time she's caught me staring; all I've done is stare at her ever since she transferred to Panem High three months ago. But usually I look away quickly. 

 

Today I can't. 

 

She holds my gaze, and pulls the candy out from between plush lips, slightly reddened from her treat. With a smirk, she drags her tongue up the cane, achingly slowly, pausing to swirl it around the slightly sharpened tip. I barely bite back a groan. Then she descends again, taking the entire stick into her hot mouth, inch by inch while I watch. I can't look away, can't even blink. 

 

The warning bell interrupts my erotic show as people all around us climb out of their chairs, blocking my view. 

 

I close my eyes, try to steady my breathing. I'm so turned on, my cock throbs and strains against my jeans. She has no idea, the effect she has on me. There's no way I can stand up until I get myself under control. 

 

I’m trying to think about anything that'll calm me down - algebra, coach Abernathy in the shower - when a shadow passes over me. I glance up and there stands Katniss Everdeen, in all of her black-haired red-lipped glory. She smirks, and sets a fresh candy cane on the table in front of me, before turning and walking away, her ass swaying sensually. 

 

I'm definitely going to be late for class. 


	13. Day 19: Kiss Me Under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Super short little modern AU. Rated T.

It's been yet another overlong day at the bakery making endless cookies and bûche de Noël. Trying to keep a smile for all of the stressed out shoppers who snap and spit their frustration at me. And the endless loop of Christmas music on the PA system. 

 

I'm sick of the holidays. I'm sick of angels and reindeer and tinsel. I might have a stroke if I see another sprig of mistletoe. 

 

Ebeneezer Scrooge has nothing on me right now. 

 

I just want to crash on the couch, watch Netflix and forget about Christmas altogether for an evening. 

 

But the fates have something entirely different in store for me it seems. 

 

I arrive home to find that my house is softly lit with candles and twinkle lights. The new Pentatonix Christmas CD plays in the background. And in front of me, my Katniss, smirking. Her raven hair is loose, reflections from the Christmas lights dance among the strands, crown her in coloured jewels. She's wearing only a ridiculously tiny pair of panties. 

 

Decorated with mistletoe. 

 

I just might have that stroke after all. 


	14. Day 21: The Darkest Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a happy fluffy chapter. It's a canon post-MJ glimpse at depression, anxiety and SAD. Rated T.

**The Darkest Day (Day 21)**

 

Winters are hard.

 

The cold, the darkness. The snow that makes hunting almost impossible for Katniss, and even walking to town difficult for me. But since the end of the war, we’ve managed the winters together.

 

Until now.

 

In winters past, we would curl up together in front of the fire, or even just in our bed under the quilt, and remind ourselves and each other of all of the good we’ve seen in Panem. Of every act of kindness we’ve witnessed.

 

But this year while Katniss has been curled up under the quilt, staring at the horrors in her mind, I’ve been at my brand new bakery.

 

It’s not how I wanted it to be. I had grand visions of running the bakery side-by-side, the two of us, laughing together. And for awhile, it was like that.

 

Then the darkness descended.

 

I could close for a few days. I  _ should _ close for a few days, take some time to rest and restore my balance. But as one of the few fledgling shops in District Twelve, it’s a given that I’ll have a booth at the Solstice Festival. I owe it to my customers, to everyone who is supporting my bakery, to do this. This, on top of everything else I have to do to keep my new business afloat.

 

So I’m working ten, fifteen hours a day, trying not to buckle under the expectations of the people in the district. I’m tired and stressed, my tenuous grasp on my sanity tested at every turn.

 

And Katniss weathers the storm alone.

 

But I can't help her. I can't help her, can't hold her or be there for her, the way I know she needs me to be. I can’t, because I’m so close to losing myself. Because each time I try to talk to her and she pushes me away I slip a little further. Because I’m terrified that the next time she snarls I’m not going to be able to control myself. And she won’t be able to help soothe me, calm me, bring me back to me. Not locked as she is in her own mind. We are both utterly miserable.

 

I feel abandoned. And then I feel guilty for feeling abandoned when I know, rationally, that it’s not Katniss’s choice. 

 

And the guilt makes my own anxiety worse. 

 

The more of me that anxiety and self-loathing steals, the less of me there is for my customers. My friends. My Katniss. 

 

And so it goes, spiralling further and further out of my control. Getting worse and worse. More and more hopeless.

 

I know that I'm failing everyone. Failing my customers. Failing the woman I love. 

 

Failing myself. 

 

And there's nothing I can do about it. 

 

The solstice festival is finally here, and while I was up hours before the dawn, Katniss was gone before my eyes opened. Rationally, I know that's better than the days she can't get out of bed at all. 

 

But I'm not always rational. 

 

By the time I get to the bakery, all of my muscles ache from the strain of holding myself together. Like a toy wound too tightly, I'm vibrating with repressed energy. And like that toy, I'm on the verge of snapping. 

 

It's been a long time since I've had what Dr. Aurelius euphemistically calls an  _ episode _ . I've learned over the years how to cope with stress, how to recognize when I'm too close to the edge. Katniss, too, knows the signs, knows how to talk me down. 

 

But she can't help me right now. She’s not even here.

 

Alone in my bakery, in the deep darkness of predawn, I clutch the edge of the counter and try desperately to hang on to myself. 

 

When the guys I've hired to help with the festival arrive, I've got the preparations - and myself - under control. And I almost sound pleasant as we work together to bring everything out to my booth, set up among the others in the town square. But Katniss remains in the back of my mind, worry eating away at the edges of my façade.

 

I try to keep my mind occupied with the work. Try not to let it wander.

 

Only when things are in full swing do I pause to look around. The square is decorated with ribbons and greenery boughs, cut paper snowflakes and tiny twinkle lights. It’s beautiful. District Twelve never looked like this before the war, when there was no appetite for frivolity, or even for happiness. When the only thing that mattered was survival.

 

But now the snow is clean and white, and red-nosed children with plump cheeks run and play, free of oppression. Free of worry. 

 

Free.

 

I’m adding the vision before me to my mental list of good things when a small, cold hand slips into my own.

 

Katniss.

 

Her eyes are red-rimmed and hollow, but she’s wearing a brave face, and standing beside me. Holding my hand, supporting me on the day I need her most.

 

She says nothing, and neither do I. But her hand in mine is enough.

 

Today is the darkest day. It only gets brighter from here.

 

We’ll get through this. We’ve been through worse before.


	15. Day 22: Strike While the Iron's Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Nothing but smut. Unapologetic smut. Rated E, duh.

**Strike While the Iron’s Hot (Day 22)**

 

There are few things hotter than a half naked man. Especially when that man is my husband. 

 

Tonight is Peeta’s company Christmas party, and he’s home early, getting ready. The ironing board is set up between our kitchen and living room, where he can reach the electrical outlet, but still see the hockey game. Though he's not really watching the television. Instead, all of his attention is focussed on pressing the cuff of his crisp dress shirt. His tongue peeks out from between perfect pink lips as he concentrates. 

 

He hasn't heard me come home yet, which gives me an opportunity to shamelessly leer at him, dressed as he is in nothing more than stretchy black boxer briefs and a pair of socks. 

 

Peeta is gorgeous, and the fact that he doesn't really know just how attractive he is makes him even hotter. His hair, still damp from the shower, flops over his forehead in ashy blond waves. He usually gels it back, probably will for tonight too. But the way it is now - rumpled and a little crazy - is how I love it best. The silky strands practically beg for my fingers.

 

He shifts his attention back to the television, affording me a glorious view of his back, a wide swath of pale golden skin that contrasts so beautifully with my own. The pull and flex of his shoulder muscles as he moves the iron is hypnotic, guiding my eyes downward to his gorgeous ass. The most perfect ass, taut and tight, holding proud dominion over thickly muscled thighs and lean calves. Just the thought of grabbing those cheeks in both hands, squeezing, feeling the muscles bunch, has me shifting my thighs together. 

 

He twists to set the iron on the counter and finally notices me. “You're home,” he smiles, blue eyes twinkling. Peeta’s always so free with his smiles, but he saves the best ones for me. 

 

I don’t hesitate, stalking across the room, winding my arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss him. “Mistletoe,” I murmur, not giving him a chance to even glance at the ball of plastic leaves and berries dangling above his head before capturing his sweet mouth with my own. I can taste his smile. 

 

He's gentle, but I'm not. I'm already hot and squirming. He tries to pull back, to slow down. But I'm having none of it. And after a couple of attempts he gives in, taking control, biting my lip and sliding a hand under my shirt to splay across my back. I groan against his lips and he presses me against the narrow part wall. 

 

My fingers find their way into his rumpled curls, tugging until he drops his head back, moaning. I take the opportunity to lick a line up his exposed throat, nibble at the smooth skin of his freshly-shaven jaw. His scent is strongest here, clean and masculine and  _ Peeta _ , and my mouth waters. 

 

“What's gotten into you?” He presses the words against my temple as I bite my way down his throat, across his collarbone. 

 

“You're just so sexy,” I groan, and it sounds like I'm in pain. “I can't help myself.” His eyes light with pleasure; I'm seldom the aggressor on our relationship but the way he's looking at me - like I'm the most incredible thing he's ever seen - makes me think I should be more often. 

 

He hooks his hands under my ass and hoists me up onto the counter. My squeak of surprise morphs into a groan as his hands again snake under my shirt, stroking my skin, raising goosebumps everywhere. “Please,” I beg. 

 

My sweater and camisole get flung across the kitchen. He rids me of my bra with a snap and then his head descends. My head thunks against the cupboard door in surrender as he wraps those wicked pink lips around first one and then the other nipple, alternating as if he can't decide which he prefers. 

 

I'm aching and throbbing under his ministrations, one hand holds him against my breast, the other slides into my slacks, past my panties. I moan as my fingers part my slick lips, press against my needy clit. 

 

Peeta’s eyes fly open, he watches the fabric ripple over my exploring fingertips with a pained expression. “Fuck, Katniss,” he breathes. Then those insistent hands are pushing my own aside, slipping my pants and panties off to pool on the tile floor. The granite is cold against my bare ass but it only makes me hotter. 

 

His hands hold me firm, balanced on the very edge of the counter as he lifts my legs over his shoulders and his head dips between my thighs. 

 

The first pass of his tongue has me wailing. He's so good at this, can play my body like a violin, winding me up so tightly I can only chant his name, an invocation. But he's utterly relentless, not giving me a second’s reprieve. 

 

The way he moans against my flesh, I'm certain he's stroking himself, and that knowledge almost sends me spiralling over the edge. “Please, Peeta,” I whine. “I need more.” I tug his hair until he's standing before me, licking his lips, eyes dark and hooded. “I need you,” I confess. 

 

He cups my face, smiling before he kisses me hard. I can taste myself on his lips. Even as he shucks his boxers, he holds me fast, keeping me securely balanced. He's always so giving, in every way. 

 

My soft, affectionate thoughts are scattered to the wind as he presses into me. He's huge and so hard, and even as wet as I am there's that pinch, that breathless moment of wondering if he'll fit. 

 

He fits. He fits me perfectly, in every way. Always.

 

Despite the time crunch, despite the fact that we have to be at his company party soon, Peeta takes his time. When it comes to loving me, he never rushes. 

 

He sets a controlled pace, every smooth stroke nudging that place inside me. I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into the firm flesh of his beautiful ass. “I love your ass,” I groan and he chuckles against my skin.

 

I'm lost to the pleasure, panting his name. His strokes are sure and generous as he stokes my fire. 

“How did I get so lucky?” he murmurs against my throat. 

 

“I'm the lucky one,” I moan. And it's true. 

He grunts when I shift my legs and plant my heels on the edge of the counter, splaying my knees wide. “Holy shit,” he gasps, his eyes glued to where we’re connected. 

“Harder,” I pant, and he makes a strangled groan deep in his throat.

He cups my ass in his huge hands, tilting my hips to hammer into me. He’s frantic, all I can do is cling to him and surrender. He presses his face against my shoulder, panting nonsense and filth, pleading with me to come with him.

I close my eyes and bite my lip. My blood screams in my veins. 

 

I’m close, but he’s closer, and he seems to understand that. He shifts his grip to snake a hand between us, stroking me roughly, growling in my ear. And I fly.

 

I come so hard the noises get stuck and all I can do it bite his shoulder hard while I ride out the waves of intense pleasure. It’s enough to drag Peeta over the edge with me, his sharp cry of pleasure echoing through the kitchen as he pulses and shudders. Then he slumps against me, clinging as he struggles to control his breathing.

 

“I’m going to be thinking about this the entire time we’re at the party,” I murmur. He chuckles and helps me down from the counter.  My knees wobble, and he holds me upright until I’m able to stand. “Thinking about how much I want to do it again.” 

 

His eyes light up even as his mouth twitches in amusement. “What’s gotten into you?”

 

“You, just a few moments ago.” I wink at him, and start to saunter away on shaky-fawn legs, stopping just underneath the mistletoe. “Look where I’m standing, Peeta,” I taunt.

 

He laughs outright and joins me, kissing me sweetly. “I might not make it until we get home.  We might have to find a private little spot…” I murmur against his lips.

 

“Am I going to have to confiscate this, so you’ll behave?” he asks, pulling the bit of plastic greenery down.

 

“You sure you don’t want to skip the party? You could quit your job.” I snatch the mistletoe from his hand.

 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he groans. “Go shower while I finish my shirt.”

 

“Fine,” I sigh. “The sooner we get to that party, the sooner we can come home and play under this again…” I dangle the ball of mistletoe from my finger and waltz naked down the hall to the bathroom. When I glance over my shoulder he’s watching me, his fist convulsively clutching the formerly crisp fabric of his shirt. 

  
He's going to have to iron that shirt again.


	16. Day 24: Winter Carnival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU. Rated G.

**Winter Carnival (Day 24)**

 

She waits until Peeta puts down the chainsaw before approaching him. He glances up at her with a grin, snow shavings caught in his eyelashes and in the curls that stick out from under his red cap. “Hey,” he murmurs, his warm voice a sharp contrast to the bitter cold of the evening.

 

“Hey yourself,” Katniss replies, handing him a steaming paper cup. “I, um. I thought you might be cold.” She wants to kick herself; of course he’s cold. It’s freezing out, and he’s been sculpting a giant chunk of ice for over an hour now. She knows; she's been watching the entire time from the coffee stand where she works during the annual Panem Winter Carnival. 

 

“I'm not too bad, actually,” he smiles. “But this is so thoughtful, thank you.” His eyes twinkle in the glare of the spotlights that illuminate his work area.

 

“You're welcome,” she mumbles shyly, and turns to leave. 

 

“Wait, Katniss,” he calls after her. “I mean, can you stay a bit?” 

 

She smiles, just a little, before schooling her features back into a neutral expression and turning back to him. Slowly. She shrugs. “Sure, I guess. It’s pretty quiet at the booth.” It’s day two of the winter carnival, but the sun has already set. The families that flock to the festival during the day have gone home for dinner, and the teenagers who descend on the carnival in the evenings haven’t yet arrived.

 

Peeta brushes some snow off the low stone wall where he’s working, and gestures for her to sit beside him. Though they’ve been schoolmates for as long as she can remember, this is the first time she’s ever sat alone with him. The first time he’s ever addressed her by name. He takes a sip from the cup she gave him and smiles in surprise. “How?” he starts.

 

“Tea, black and extra strong,” she grins. “You’ve been getting the same thing for years, Peeta.” Most people come to the booth for coffee or hot chocolate. A few brave souls order Sae’s apple cider, But the box of tea bags under the counter goes mostly untouched, except by Peeta.

 

“I didn’t think you noticed me,” he says softly, and though he’s already flushed from the cold, Katniss swears his cheeks grow even pinker.

 

“Please,” she rolls her eyes. “Captain of the wrestling team. Prom king. Panem’s master carver? Everyone knows who you are, Peeta.” Most of the reason they'd spent years at the same schools but never been friends is that Peeta is popular, always surrounded by people, beloved.  And Katniss, well, she's about as noticeable as the walls. Even now, with high school behind them and a semester at Panem U under their belts, he’s in a completely different stratosphere. 

 

Peeta laughs. “Well, I’m the baby of my family. Generally, I have to be over the top just to get a second glance.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s true,” she murmurs. She’s always noticed him. Back when they were just middle schoolers, she noticed his kindness, the wide smiles he had for everyone. More recently, she’s noticed his broad shoulders and his blue eyes, fathomless as the ocean. She startles when she realizes she’s been staring at him, and quickly looks away.

 

Twinkle lights in blue and green glitter in the bare trees all around the festival grounds. It’s magical, a fairy realm. An evening of endless possibility. She grins to herself at that mental description. The creative writing course she’s taking - the only class she has with Peeta, though he never saw her there - has filled her head with fanciful descriptions and fantasy worlds. She’s glances back at him; he’s still looking at her, a smile playing on his lush lips. 

 

She’s noticed his lips too.

 

“So what are you carving anyway?” she asks, to break their silent standoff. He looks at her speculatively, before reaching for a plastic-wrapped piece of paper, tilting it to catch the light.

 

The air is sucked from her lungs.

 

The sketch is simple, but gorgeous - everything he draws is gorgeous. But it’s not the beauty that steals her breath and her senses. It’s the content.

 

Three dandelions, bare but for a few straggling bits of fluff. And a host of tiny beings pulling the remaining bits free, holding them like tiny umbrellas. Woodland sprites. “Is this?” she breathes, unable to continue.

 

“Your story,” he finishes for her. He’s chewing his lip, looking at her with apprehension, his blond brows creased. Her story, from the single class they had together that semester.

 

“How,” she starts, reduced to single syllables. She traces the plastic over the pencil lines with reverent fingers while she tries to calm her whirling thoughts. “I didn’t think you even knew I was there.”

 

He laughs, but not cruelly. It’s a soft, disbelieving noise, more air than sound. “Katniss,” he says, and then waits until she turns to look at him again. Their noses are only inches apart; she has no idea how they got so close. “The only reason I took that class was because I knew you’d be there. I’m a business major.”

 

“Oh,” she says as something stirs inside her, warm and curious.

 

“I, well. I was trying to get your attention.” He smiles. “If I’d known it was my tea you’d notice, I wouldn’t have had to try so hard.”

 

“I noticed everything,” she admits, heart pounding. His eyes widen slightly and she cringes.

 

“I asked for this spot,” he blurts, and she’s surprised by how nervous he seems. “Right here,” he pats the low stone wall between them, his hand brushing against her thigh. “Because I knew you’d be working Sae’s booth again this year. And I was hoping you’d see the dandelion sprites and come talk to me.”

 

“You’ve never spoken to me before.” It sounds like an accusation, but it’s really not. Theirs was a huge high school, and an even bigger university. But still, there were times, over the years, when he could have. She’d been to some of his wrestling matches. She’d seen him in the audience at her choir performances.

 

He looks chagrined, rubs the back of his neck, but doesn’t turn away. It’s endearing. “I, uh. I’ve always wanted to. But you’re, well.” She’s no one, that’s what she’s waiting for him to say. He huffs out a breath that she can feel trembling across her lips. “You’re so far out of my league,” he says. It’s true, but it still hurts to hear it. Her face falls, and she shifts to look at her hands, clasped around his sketch, fingers turning white from the cold. “Katniss,” he whispers, and she lifts just her eyes. “You’re smart and gorgeous and fierce, you intimidate me.”

 

She turns fully then to face him again, searching his features in the shadows for any hint of deception, of mockery, but finding none. “Me?” she asks, shaking her head slowly in disbelief.

 

“You have no idea,” he says. “The effect you have.”

 

Before she can ask what he means, there’s a commotion that attracts her attention, reminds her that the evening crowd is starting to arrive and she’s been away from the booth too long. “I, uh. I should get back,” she says, pressing the sketch back into his hands and standing. 

 

“Oh,” he says, but she can hear disappointment in that single syllable. Though she can scarcely believe it, he clearly wants to keep talking to her. To  _ her _ , not Glimmer Roberts, not Cashmere Solomon. Her, Katniss Everdeen, not very big and not particularly pretty.

 

Katniss smiles.

 

She doesn’t smile very often, but she can’t help herself. He doesn’t know the effect he has on her either. “I, uh. I finish at nine. Will you still be here?” His face lights up, and he nods. “Can I come back and see your progress? Maybe, um. Bring you some more tea?”

 

“I’d like that so much, Katniss,” he says, the words shimmering in a frozen vapor promise between them.

 

“I’ll see you then,” she shoots him one last shy smile before turning and running back to the booth.

 

She can feel his eyes follow her.

[](http://68.media.tumblr.com/55a9991a4b3a78d982ccb1295d830006/tumblr_inline_oio0pzJmMx1sd8t5x_500.jpg)

  
  
  



End file.
